


I Learn New Things About Myself Everyday

by Hunter_Caprittarius



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Loki (Marvel), Case Fic, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Everyone Is Gay, Human Loki (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, John is a Saint, Language Barrier, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, M/M, Magic, Magical Bullshit, Memory Loss, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, as in, because wtf Moffat?, did I mention slow burn?, is Loki good or bad?, obviously, pretending that Norwegian is Old Norse, saddle up, the entire first book is just pre-slash, we don't know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29730876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hunter_Caprittarius/pseuds/Hunter_Caprittarius
Summary: When Loki accused Odin of turning him into a monster, Odin decides to put that theory to the test. Stripped of his Allspeak, his magic, his strength, and his longevity, Loki is cast down to Earth. If he can prove that he is a good person without any Aesir influence Odin will gradually return what he took. If not...Loki will die among the humans.It just so happens that the doorstep Loki falls on is none other than that of 221 Baker Street. And suddenly things are a little more complicated.[Updates every other Friday]
Relationships: Moriarty/Loki (pretend), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Loki (Marvel), other people think they're a thing for like two chapters
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	I Learn New Things About Myself Everyday

**Author's Note:**

> I’m just going to say it outright: Sherlock/Loki and John/Tony Stark are my endgame ships! However, the Sherloki is going to be pretty slow burn and Tony (and the other avengers) aren’t going to show up until the sequel fic, which is a long way away. This is mostly a story about what would happen if Loki were in the Sherlock story.
> 
> I do like Johnlock, this just isn’t that. Cheers!

**Part 1: Prologue**

The day Loki of Asgard was to be executed was a joyous occasion. The oppressive gloom that usually dogged the streets around the death of a member of the royal family was nowhere to be seen. Instead, people gathered merrily in the streets and conversed in colorful tones. Certain individuals bragged about their admission into the execution as others squawked in jealousy. 

Those who were unable to attend would line the streets and wait in anticipation to hear news. Details of the execution would spread like wildfire through the kingdom by word of mouth. By the end of the day, all of Asgard would know everything from what Loki’s last words were to how much he bled. 

There would be no open feasting or celebration at the executioner's conclusion. Something so brazen might be considered treasonous. But wine and laughter would flow freely behind closed doors. They would toast the death of a Jotun. 

That’s not to say that everyone was excited. Many of Asgard’s outcasts, many of their magical community, had revered the second prince. This was, however, a wildly unpopular opinion. Those who mourned would have to do so in secret, they would not hang black flags for fear of persecution. Only one person dared express her grief openly. A long black sash hung over the edge of the Allmother’s balcony, fluttering in the wind.

Overall, the feeling in Asgard was one of exuberance. 

Even Loki, the man condemned, was excited. 

It was, in his opinion, about damn time. He would finally be free. The life-long farce, the burdensome existence that had been thrust upon him would finally be lifted. It would end, all of it. When the obsidian ax severed his head from his body, it would also sever the shame from his mind and the pain from his soul. 

Loki felt euphoric. So great was his joy that it was impossible to contain the smile that burst forth. 

He smiled when the guards removed him from his cell, he smiled when they handed him the simple white tunic, he smiled as he changed into it. When the guards clapped him in chains and took him by the arms, he gave them a toothy grin. He smirked at every person they passed as the two guards dragged him to the courtroom. And when he was finally set before the Allfather himself, Loki couldn't help but beam. 

Odin Borson stood alone on his golden podium, plated in gold like the sun. Outwardly, the man appeared dignified and benevolent, if not a little self-satisfied. But Loki knew better. 

He was not surprised at the absence of Thor and his...his mother. Thor, still on Earth desperately trying to fix what Loki had destroyed, had likely not even been told of Loki’s trial. Frigga had either been forbidden from coming or had been unable to bring herself to witness her son’s execution. While he had expected to face Odin alone, Loki did wish he could have seen his mother one last time. 

Odin began, "Loki Laufeyson, you stand accused." At the use of the Jotun patronymic, Loki’s smile fell. It would appear that Odin would not allow Loki to leave with his dignity. Very well. Loki would return the favor: he would not go gracefully. 

"What am I accused of Father? Wanting your love? Wanting your praise? Oh yes, such heinous crimes deserve to be punished with due diligence and swift retribution!" Loki taunted his father, paying no heed to the hundred courtiers watching with morbid curiosity. 

"My son–"

"No!" Loki interrupted. "You have made it abundantly clear that I am no son of yours! And likewise, I would never dream of calling someone like you 'father!'"

Loki took a deep, shuddering breath and made to continue, but was stopped by Odin's roar.

"Silence! I will hear no more of your spiteful drivel! You stand accused of many crimes, all severe. And you will answer for them in equal severity. You are accused of high treason and murder. Laufeyson, how do you plead?"

Loki rattled his golden chains and the entire hall fell silent. The only sound was that of those golden chains, clinking together with a beautiful ringing, almost like bells. It seemed to mock the pale prince.

Every Asgardian craned their head to hear what Disgraced Prince Loki would say. Surely he would deny his crimes, for what else did the boy know how to do? Loki knew how to lie like a bird knew to sing, understood deceit the way a fish understood water. These things came to the bastard-prince easily, instinctually, like blinking or drawing breath. They would have better luck asking him to shed his skin than his lies.

Seconds passed in that pregnant silence, feeling more like minutes. Very slowly, Loki's back seemed to tighten, drawing back like a bowstring in a hunter's hand. His head lolled back and his mouth fell open. Vacant eyes reached towards the ceiling, taking a long moment to marvel at the beautiful architecture they saw there. Then he shuddered and gasped in such a way that many in the crowd thought the Allfather had already begun punishing Loki, not waiting for a response any longer.

But then, snapping back into place as if his bowstring back had been released, a whining sound peeled out of Loki's throat: a ghoulish, eerie laugh. He tittered without restraint, seeming to many like he'd lost his mind.

"Cease this!" cried the Allfather, slamming the butt of his spear against the ground. 

Loki's jaw snapped shut mid-laugh and his gaze drifted down to the Allfather, almost like he'd forgotten the man was there.

"Do you forget where you are, boy? Do you think yourself immune? Does the sin of your blood taint your mind even now? Or were we just foolish enough to think you one of us, all these years?"

Loki's expression immediately turned guarded and rigid. "Of course not, _Allfather,_ " He spat out the title like a curse, "My beastly mind finds itself just sentient enough to know where I am: I stand before your hypocrisy. Forgive me, I found the question rather amusing. For who asks a liar how they plead? What do you really want from me?"

Odin's gaze became softer, almost desperate, "Loki, my boy, I wish the truth from you. Nothing more." A metallic sound rang out, a sound only Loki could hear. _A lie_. 

Loki flinched away, then let his lips twist into a cruel smile. "Guilty."

There was a stunned silence.

Loki laughed again, "Didn't you hear me? Have you lost your hearing in your old age? I said: _GUILTY_!"

It took Odin a moment to collect himself. This had clearly not been the outcome he had expected. The proof that he still possessed the ability to put the old man on edge after all these years gave Loki a thrill.

“So?” He prompted, holding his arms out. “I present my whole self to you, oh glorious one! The monster of your own making, come to be put down like an animal by your very hand! Was it not you who fostered such opinions amongst your people? Was it not you who promised to defend the realms from creatures such as I? Go on, fulfill your promise!”

Shocked chatter rose from the crowd. Odin scanned the court before looking back to Loki, “Very well.” Loki’s smile returned.

The gathered crowd began to murmur in anticipation. Loki spared a glance down at his white tunic, the traditional garb of a man on death row. He wondered how it would look stained with blood. Or perhaps the Allfather would simply disintegrate him where he stood, leaving not a single cell behind. 

Odin raised a wrinkled hand, “You have come expecting an execution. This is not that.” Loki’s head snapped up. He met Odin’s eye, furious, and found a pensive expression. After taking everything from Loki, would the Allfather now rob him of his death as well? “The life of Loki Laufeyson will, indeed, end today. _However,_ the soul of the man you see before you will not. Loki, you have accused me of turning you into a monster. We shall see if that is true.

“You will be sent down to Midgard in a human form with no recollection of past events. If indeed, it is my presence that is at fault, if your crimes are Asgard’s to bear, you will naturally evolve into a good man. If you can show kindness and compassion to those around you–if you do not attempt to mow them down the way you have everything thus far–your abilities, your longevity, and your memories will be gradually returned to you.”

He stared Loki down, “If you do not do these things. If you prove that cruelty and selfishness are simply in your nature, in your _blood_ : you will die a mortal among the very people you attempted to subjugate.” 

The crowd talked contentedly among themselves. This punishment suited them well for it was, truly, simply an execution in disguise. Loki could never show compassion or love for anyone but himself and the lifespan of a mortal was nothing to an Asgardian. By the time any of them thought to miss him, he would already be dead. Their chatter became thunderous but Loki heard none of it. He stood burning under Odin’s gaze. 

He began to scream. “Curse you. Curse you! You miserable, two-faced cur! Bastard! Hypocritical bastard! I hope you die a coward's death, I hope you have your throat slit in your sleep! When you approach the gates of Valhalla, I hope the Norns spit in your one good eye before casting you down to Hel, you sanctimonious son of a bitch!” 

His words rang out in the suddenly silent court, Loki didn’t stop, “One way or another, I will crawl my way back and kill you myself, the same way I killed Laufey by your bedside, the same way I killed all of those pathetic little mortals! You’ll regret not getting rid of me here and now! You hear me?”

Odin just smirked at him, “I hear you.” Then he leveled his staff at Loki and, in a brilliant flash of golden light, Loki disappeared. His agonized scream echoed through the court long after he was gone.

⬩⬩⬩

The London sky had a near-constant state of overcast. It rained there so frequently that sleek black umbrellas had become part of London high-fashion. It was cloudy and grey the morning that London received an otherworldly visitor, so no one noticed that the bright flash and loud clap that cut through the air at precisely five o’clock in the morning were not lightning and thunder but the sound of a small dimensional rift opening up in the street. 

An invisible rift appeared right above the open window of a third-floor flat on Baker Street. Luckily, the flat’s two inhabitants were engaged in a heated argument at the time and so the bright flash of light went unnoticed. The many cameras that were positioned around the street, aimed at 221 Baker Street, suddenly shorted out and went down. So the only person who noticed the man who was spat out of the rift was the building’s landlady, one Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting in her armchair with a fresh cup of tea, watching the sunrise. She had just raised her cup to her lips when a body fell past her window and landed below with a loud crash. Tea discarded, she ran to the window and threw it open. The man’s fall had been broken by the fabric awning of the cafe on the ground floor and he now lay unconscious on the pavement. From where she was standing, she could just barely see his chest rising and falling.

Mrs. Hudson grabbed a shawl and ran from the flat. “Sherlock! John!” she called. Neither man heard her, too wrapped up in their quarrel. Mrs. Hudson stomped her foot. Did she have to do _everything_ herself? She made her way down the stairs as fast as she could on her old legs.

“Oh, dear.”

The man was, indeed, still alive, but he was bleeding from an unseen head wound. For a split second, she was staring down at a different boy, one with dirty blonde hair and a million freckles. Then she shook herself and the moment was over. This man had long black hair and was dressed in all white, with a long collared shirt. But he needed help regardless, his clothes were becoming quickly stained red. She called an ambulance and sat with the man until it came, one hand gripping his shoulder as if to keep him from disappearing. She compulsively checked his pulse every thirty seconds, flooded with relief every time she felt his heart continue beating.

The man’s eyes fluttered open and he looked around blearily. He tried to get up but Mrs. Hudson didn’t let him. “Oh, no, dearie. I wouldn’t if I were you. Just stay still.”

“Jeg er ikke død,” the man murmured. 

“Pardon?” Mrs. Hudson asked. The man babbled a few more slurred words in his strange language but soon slipped back into a daze.

When the ambulance arrived, a medic offered to let her ride to the hospital with the man. Mrs. Hudson thought about refusing. She hardly knew this man. But she could still hear John and Sherlock squabbling upstairs and decided that she would rather spend the rest of the day with the stranger who had thrown himself off of her roof than listen to them go on. So she accepted and let the medic help her into the ambulance.

Once they arrived at the hospital, it was up to Mrs. Hudson to fill out paperwork for the man. She brazenly filled out the form with made-up information as she knew none of it. Once the man was able, she was sure he could correct what was wrong. 

He was obviously a foreigner. She had a tenant once who spoke a language that sounded similar to the one the man had spoken to her. The tenant's name had been Lukas, so she wrote in Lukas for the man’s name. She hoped he wouldn’t mind. 

⬩⬩⬩

In another room, Dr. Call examined his patient and found that the man’s injuries were miraculously few considering the fall he had taken. Despite the head wound, which was minor, the man had no trouble tracking and when he spoke his speech was clear and not slurred. Only trouble was, Dr. Call had no idea what his patient was saying when he spoke. 

“Jeg kan ikke huske noe,” said the man on the bed. Dr. Call blinked. 

“Nurse? Can you come in here?”

Nurse Whitley shuffled into the room with an agitated expression. “Yes?”

“Hvor er jeg? Hvem er du?” said the man.

“What language does that sound like to you?” asked Call. “We need a translator.”

Whitley shrugged, “Norwegian, I think. My aunt’s from there. Hagen’s our Norwegian translator on call, but he came down with laryngitis just a few days ago.”

Dr. Call groaned and hung his head. “Perfect.”

Nurse Whitley looked at the patient and frowned. The man had no identification, no way of communicating with them, and probably no insurance. She could feel her already throbbing headache getting worse as she thought of the trial ahead of them: endless paperwork. They would have to call in their Swedish or German translator. Hours would then be spent attempting to parse out some semblance of communication with the bits and pieces of overlapping language. Then her thoughts drifted to the little old lady in the waiting room, the one who’d filled out the man’s paperwork, and Whitley saw a way out.

Had any other nurse answered the doctor's call, this would not have happened. But Nurse Whitley had, by far, the least reverence for the rules of medicine. Medicine had not been her first field of choice, nor her second, not even her fifth. Whitley had wanted to go to music school to become a musician. Her skill at the cello would have taken her far. Her parents, however, had had other ideas. And so she became a nurse: the most miserable, unhappy nurse in the entire hospital. And all she really wanted at the moment was to go home.

“The lady who brought him in knows him, I’m sure she can take him home,” Nurse Whitley assumed.

“She knows him?” asked Dr. Call.

“Yeah,” Nurse Whitley said. 

It was a tiny, minuscule lie, hardly even a lie. Nothing more than a minor deception. 

Nurse Whitley’s word and the patient’s inability to contradict led Dr. Call to believe her. He had no reason to think that the phony information that Mrs. Hudson had scribbled into the man’s medical form was anything but true. 

A few stitches and a pat on the back later, “Lukas” was promptly released into Mrs. Hudson’s care.

Poor Mrs. Hudson, who had just wanted to do a good thing, had no idea what was happening until it was too late. When she tried to correct their mistake she was too flustered to do anything but sputter. 

By now, Mrs. Hudson really should have learned not to involve herself in strange matters. She did try, but trouble had a habit of dumping itself right on her doorstep (sometimes literally), leaving her powerless in its wake. Sherlock was a testament to such a thing. How she had ever ended up with a tenant like him was a mystery. Even the normal-looking ones like John Watson turned out to be wayward doctors who were as likely to break your wrist as they were to mend it. 

It was becoming a running theme, and so she was only a little surprised when she ended up towing the strange Norwegian man back to Baker Street with her. 

“What’s your real name then?” she asked him as they rode in the cab. As she had expected, he had no answer.“Well then, I’ll just have to keep calling you Lukas until you correct me, won’t I?”

Mrs. Hudson paid the cab fare and got out when it arrived. She went to the front door to unlock it. When she turned around, Lukas was standing on the curb looking like a lost dog: shaggy and sad. He was probably a foreign immigrant, and most likely a homeless one at that. Mrs. Hudson took in his bedraggled appearance and sighed. “Come on then,” she motioned him in, “No use in letting you stay out here to freeze after all the trouble I’ve gone through to put you back together.”

Lord knows she had better things to do than taking in suicidal immigrants, but none more interesting. So she led Lukas up to her flat and had him sit on a stool while she thought about what to do with him.

She couldn’t well let him stay here, could she? Who knew what the boy was thinking, he could be a threat. And it was entirely improper for women her age to be living with mysterious young men. She would warm him up, give him a jacket and some money, then send him on his way. Yes, that was it. 

She looked back at the man fiddling his fingers as he sat on her kitchen stool. It only took the thought of Lukas throwing himself off the nearest bridge the next chance he got that made her realize that she'd never get a good night's sleep if she let him go. To think of all the terrible things that might happen to him on the streets. She decided to let him stay. Only to keep an eye on the poor boy, of course. He was much too young to be ending his life. She was sure she could find some use for him.

“Seems there’s really no other choice. You’ll have to stay with me,” said Mrs. Hudson. She pointed at him and then at her sofa, “Do you understand? You can stay here.” She nodded in satisfaction when he seemed to understand. “But if you’re to stay here you can’t go on looking like you just crawled from the sewer; you’re a bit of a drowned rat at the present. I think a bit of a makeover is in order.”

She ushered him into her bathroom and sat him down in front of the vanity. Lukas gave his reflection a scrutinizing look and Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Yes, I agree.” He really did look awful. He was bruised and his clothes were ruined. The worst part, however, was his hair. In order to stitch up Lukas's head wound, the doctors had been forced to shave a patch of Lukas's long black hair. “Really is a shame, you had such nice hair. We’ll have to cut the rest of it as well.”

Mrs. Hudson picked up a pair of hair scissors and got to work. After a half-hour of cutting, during which Lukas sat blessedly still, she managed to give him a decent haircut. She was forced to shave the sides close to his head but left a mop of curls on the top. It wasn’t the best thing she had ever seen–after all, she was a landlady, not a hairdresser–but it was a world of improvement. 

Afterward, she left Lukas in the flat and ventured upstairs to procure him a change of clothes. She figured some of Sherlock’s would fit Lukas. They were both so tall and thin; obviously not eating enough. Lukas was homeless, what was Sherlock’s excuse?

She knocked on the door, “Hullo? Can I come in?” When no one answered, she let herself in. Sherlock was sprawled across the sofa in his pajamas, John was at his computer, and both were resolutely ignoring the other. Evidently, their earlier spat had not ended with mutual agreement. 

“You boys really need to learn to sort these things out,” Mrs. Hudson said as she walked to Sherlock’s room, “how do you two expect to co-habitat if–”

“Cohabitate,” Sherlock corrected sourly. Well, at least she knew he was listening. 

“Yes, that. How will you two ever cohabitate if you can’t get along?” She threw open Sherlock’s wardrobe and combed through what had to be a ten of the same coat. She picked out a plain pair of pants and a sweater.

John scoffed from the other room, “Oh, Sherlock’s come up with a _brilliant_ solution to that. We each stay on our side of the line.”

“What?” Mrs. Hudson came out of Sherlock’s room with the clothes. Sure enough, Sherlock had made a line of books across the entire flat. Each man was seated on opposite sides of it. “How childish.” 

“That’s what I said!” shouted John.

“Simplicity does not equate childishness,” snapped Sherlock from the sofa, “though it isn’t surprising that your primitive minds fail to grasp the difference.”

“Oh shut up, Sherlock!”

John groaned and left to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson quickly excused herself. She could hear them going on as she descended the stairs.

“Respect the line, John!”

“Screw the bloody line, Sherlock! _My_ mug is on _your_ side!”

Mrs. Hudson let out an exasperated yet fond sigh. Being those two’s landlady often felt more like being their mother. When she returned to her flat she found Lukas in the exact same spot she had left him. He hadn’t moved an inch. 

“Come now, dear. You’re allowed to move around,” she pulled him off the vanity chair and pushed him into the bathroom. “Just hop into these.” He accepted the clothes from her and closed the door. A few minutes later, he emerged and Mrs. Hudson had to suppress the urge to coo at him. She only half succeeded. “Oh, you do clean up well. Isn’t that much better?”

She reached out to smooth out his sweater. Through it, she could feel him still shivering some. That would just not do. Before the boy even had a chance to react, Mrs. Hudson had manhandled him onto the sofa, wrapped him in a thick blanket, and disappeared into the kitchen to fix a hot drink.

By the time she came back, two cups of hot chocolate in hand, Lukas was already asleep. She placed his cup on the side table and went back to her chair. She found a novelette and began to read, glancing over at Lukas now and then, half-convinced that she would look up to find that she had hallucinated him. When he failed to vanish, Mrs. Hudson just smiled thinly at herself.

How did she get into these sorts of things? 

**Author's Note:**

> I refuse to believe that the Asgardians would really just chuck prisoners into cells with all of their armor and everything. That’s the reason why they get invaded in Thor 2. So I’ve decided that they have prison outfits as well as a white outfit for execution so that you can see the bloodstain because the Asgardians are some wonderfully sick medieval bastards.
> 
> Thing two: I know fuck-all about England. Just keep this in mind. If you see anything glaringly incorrect or cringy, for the love of God, TELL ME!
> 
> Jeg er ikke død. = I’m not dead.
> 
> I used google translate, so the Norwegian probably sucks. So sorry! If anyone speaks Norwegian and sees an error, please correct me!  
> For the record, I’m probably not going to translate most of the Norwegian. What he’s saying is less important than the fact that no one understands it.


End file.
